What Time Taught Us
by scrimmie
Summary: "Your life won't change until you change it. Now's your chance, Draco. Save her. Save us."
1. Scene One: Prologue

**Prologue**

The sunset was a bloody orange on the night the Snatchers finally caught up with the Golden Trio. Frost choked the clearing where Hermione, Harry, and Ron had been hiding, and the newly budding hyacinths had been crushed by their failed escape.

Hermione's breath was coming to her in fast gasps, partially from exhaustion and partially from the ropes crushing her chest. She could hear Harry trying to inhale through his swollen lips, and she could feel Ron sagging in defeat beside her.

"Grab hold and make it tight," Greyback growled.

Filthy Snatcher fingernails dug into her hair as Greyback counted down to the Disapparation that would take the lot of them to Malfoy Manor. To Voldemort.

 _Why_ did Harry have to be so stubborn about saying the name out loud? Up until he had slipped up on the Taboo, she'd had a plan for everything, prepared for every circumstance she could possibly prepare for. But there was no such thing as a book that would instruct them on how to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, no effective weapon to prevent an ambush.

The logical side of Hermoine's brain told her to concentrate, to take in every detail, to _come up with a plan_. But as her insides stretched from Disapparation and her back pressed uncomfortably against the rest of the prisoners, the panic seeped in. Her mouth tasted of bile. When they landed on the hard dirt of a country road, she had to fight not to wretch.

Hermione could feel the group sway back and forth, trying to stay balanced. She tried to focus on her feet, but her vision swam with remembered images of her friends, of Ron's flushed face screaming her name only moments before, of the flash of confidence in Harry's eyes that had become so rare. Shaking her head only made it worse, prying loose the memory she'd fought so hard to forget. The backs of her parent's heads, silent, unaware, as her image slowly faded from every photograph in the house. The last time she would ever see her family. They would never know they'd had a daughter if she died tonight.

No.

No.

 _No._

She bit down on her tongue, hard. Hard enough to draw blood and clear her mind. She was the brightest witch of her age. She would live through this. They all would. They had all come too far and survived too much for it to end here.

Exhaling hard, she looked up from the ground. The sun had retreated fully, and the lights of a manor looming in front of them fought through a chilly fog.

"He's not here," Harry hissed in Hermione's ear. She glanced over at the grossly misshapen profile of her friend as best she could, given how tightly they were bound.

"What?" she whispered back.

"You-Know-Who," Harry muttered. "He's not—"

Harry's eyes glazed over, cut off by something she couldn't see. It wasn't the first time she had watched him slip into Voldemort's mind, and although she didn't like it, it was a relief to know they were momentarily safe from You-Know-Who's wrath. It bought enough time for her to focus on how they were going to get out of the fortress in front of them.

An iron gate guarding the entrance had twisted into the ugly face of a woman. Hermione shuddered, recognizing Bellatrix Lestrange in the sharp metal features. There would be no getting past that kind of enchantment. She instead scanned the hedgerows on either side of the gate, searching for another way out, her heart still thudding in her chest.

"State your purpose!" the gate shrieked with a voice like a knife on a grindstone.

"We've captured Harry Potter!" Greyback bellowed back, and Hermoine gripped Harry's wrist instinctively, though she could feel no reaction from him.

They would survive, she promised herself. Survive, or go down historically, taking as many Death Eaters with them as possible.

\\\\\

Draco could hear the Snatchers coming up the sprawling entryway to Malfoy Manor long before he could see them. He'd been sitting in the dusty library with one low lantern scattering light onto the walls, trying to convince himself that reading would be a better use of his time than pacing back and forth in his bedroom waiting for the Easter holiday to end.

The sound of Greyback's leather voice bellowing indecipherable words at the gate outside had offered a third option for filling time—not that the younger Malfoy was pleased about it. The thought of more torture in the family drawing room made his stomach writhe in discomfort.

He unfolded himself from the chair in which he'd been sitting and stood to peer into the foggy gloom out the window, steeling himself for what was to come. His mother was already striding towards the entrance of the property, her waspy form silhouetted against the wrought-iron fence. It had transfigured into the evil face of his aunt, and Draco couldn't see through it to identify who the Snatchers had caught this time.

A loud rap at the door dragged Draco's attention from the window. He said nothing, not expecting whoever was on the other side to wait for permission to enter. Sure enough, the door opened to reveal the hollow man that had once been his father striding into the room.

"Can you see who they brought yet?" Lucius asked, not looking at his son.

"No," Draco responded coolly, turning back to the window. His father hadn't looked at him in months, and Draco refused to let his gaze linger long on a man who wouldn't return it.

The exchange at the gate was brief. Narcissa peered closely at one of the prisoners before flicking her wand and beckoning the mass of people onto the front lawn. Draco could see five prisoners, bound together and struggling to walk forward. As they drew nearer, he could make out a goblin, and a boy with a shock of red hair.

A Weasley.

His gut lurched.

Why had this idiot weasel gotten himself caught? Draco clenched his jaw, ignoring the clammy sweat breaking on the back of his neck. The fear he felt wasn't for the unknown blood-traitor, but for himself. The Dark side despised the Weasleys, and there was no doubt that this one would be tortured until his vocal chords ripped. Draco could hardly sleep as it was, and he was every kind of _not_ in the mood to have to drown out that kind of screaming. Again.

"We should go downstairs," said Lucius, his voice lilting in an excited way that Draco almost didn't recognize anymore.

"Yes, Father," he said, the response coming more out of habit than an actual desire to obey. He didn't ask about the tone of Lucius' voice, certain the older man had seen the red hair too.

The pair walked quickly down the dim hallway toward the drawing room, Draco looking resolutely at the back of his father's greasy head. Ever since Lucius' return from his stint in Azkaban, he had been different. The younger Malfoy couldn't recall a time when his father had appeared so unkempt. There were cracks in the man's titanium confidence, a waver of insanity in his eyes.

Everything Draco's father had done before the Hall of Prophecy, he had seemed to be doing for his family. But now, Draco wasn't so sure. He couldn't quite wrap his head around the necessity of spilling so much dirty blood onto the floors of a home that he'd grown up being told was pure and clean.

His father, Draco decided, stepping across the stained threshold of the drawing room, was waiting for a redemption that would never come.

* * *

 **a/n:** Hello lovelies! Just so we're clear, this is only a prologue because nothing happens here that isn't pretty much canon, as far as the unfolding of events is concerned. I'll start messing with that stuff in chapter one. I am so excited for this, and I hope you are too. Leave a review if you read, I want to know what you think.

xoxo scrimmie


	2. Scene Two: The Drawing Room

**Scene Two: The Drawing Room**

* * *

A fire was already blazing in the drawing room when Draco and his father walked in, but the stony temperature of the air made it obvious that the flames had only just been lit. Harsh light spilled from the chandelier overhead, tinting the room with the sickly blue color that Draco had come to associate with the pain of others.

"This night may save us," said Lucius, sweeping into a deep purple chair in front of the fire, a tiny, crooked smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Draco sat down slowly next to him, certain that the capture of a Weasley would never be enough to return the Malfoy family to a position of prominence among the Death Eaters. It would just add one more prisoner to the basement.

The drawing room door banged open. Draco heard several pairs of feet scuffing on the polished floorboards, but continued to stare pointedly at the fireplace.

"Get up Draco," his father hissed, his cold hands grasping Draco's forearm and pulling him to his feet. Lucius turned toward the people walking in the door, demanding to know details, but Draco didn't turn right away. He stared hard at the flames, trying to absorb some of their harsh strength.

"They say they've got Potter," his mother said, her voice steeled to reveal no emotion. "Come here Draco."

Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the room.

He nearly turned right back around when he saw that the prisoners were being escorted by the most vile creature he had ever met: the hulking werewolf Fenrir Greyback. Never had Malfoy ever encountered someone who took so much pleasure in ripping skin from bone barehanded. He was visibly licking his lips, and the chilly light in the room threw his features into a horrifying contrast.

Greyback had his sharp fingernails dug into the neck of the prisoner he'd claimed to be Potter, but at first glance Draco was confused as to how anyone would mistake such a fat, unkempt man for the supposed _Chosen One_. But his certainty that the wizard in front of him was a stranger faded when he saw two people tied up on either side of the maybe-Potter—two people whom Draco definitely knew.

One of the Snatchers—Scabior, if Draco remembered right—had his fist clenched in the brown mass of curls that belonged to Potter's Mudblood friend Granger. Her face was a little thinner and a little fiercer than Draco remembered, but there was no doubt that she was the same witch who had managed to beat him in every class since they were eleven.

Which meant, of course, that the Weasley with them was Potter's best mate, made obvious by the too-familiar red tint blushing across his overlarge nose.

Draco's stomach churned uncomfortably as he took them all in. His father was right it seemed. This night _would_ save them in the Dark Lord's esteem.

"Well, boy?" growled the werewolf, his yellow eyes narrowed. Draco felt himself twitch involuntarily before setting his jaw, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he was. He peered as close as he dared at the prisoner's grotesque face.

If he was honest with himself, the boy in front of him could be Potter. The glasses were right. A stretched mark on the forehead could have been the scar. His friends were there. It felt as though the temperature in the room dropped several degrees as Draco debated what to do.

"Draco?" his father asked, his voice leaping with impatience, "Is it Harry Potter?"

He swallowed back his answer. If he said yes, he would be sentencing these people to death. Much as Draco loathed to admit it, especially given the inky black mark snaking around his forearm, Dumbledore's last words to him were true—he wasn't a killer. And, judging by the lines set along his father's quivering lips, his mind would slip if he tried to be.

If it _were_ Potter that Greyback had captured, Lucius would summon the Dark Lord, and bearing witness to torture would become the least of Draco's worries. People would die. And he might be forced to do it himself.

If Draco said it wasn't Potter, it would be the first outright lie he'd ever told his father. But, he reminded himself, everything Lucius had done since being freed from Azkaban had been done to protect his own interests—not necessarily those of the whole family. Why should Draco not do the same?

Making up his mind he said, "I can't—I can't be sure it's him."

\\\\\

Hermione had to put very real effort into not letting her eyes widen in surprise at Malfoy's answer. The Slytherin prince who'd tried to murder Dumbledore was _helping them._ She knew he was doing it on purpose—she'd seen the look on his face when he registered that she was standing there. There had been an undeniable flash of recognition in his shadowed eyes. Had he gone completely off?

He did seem a little sick, looking at him. Rarely had she seen a single slicked-back hair out of place on his head, but now the blonde mess cascaded into shadow-rimmed eyes. His shoulders were angled away from her, Ron, and Harry, even as he denied knowing whether or not it was Harry. Denied it twice.

She wasn't going to pass up the time that he had bought for them wondering why he'd done it. The voices of the Death Eaters the room filled the space with enough noise that she could hiss at Harry without them hearing.

"Ideas?" she said, her lips unmoving.

He shifted uncomfortably, answering with a barely audible "Get a wand. Might be able to use it later."

Hermione had no clue how that would be possible. Every Death Eater in the purple-walled room—with the exception of Malfoy—had their wand in their hands. It would be impossible to get one without its owner noticing.

But before she had time to wrack her brain for a different idea, the door behind them slammed open.

A smoky voice echoed through the room, and although Hermione couldn't see the witch speaking, she would have recognized the lilting tone anywhere.

"What is this? What's happened?" demanded Bellatrix Lestrange, her heavy footfalls ricocheting off the floor as she pushed her way into the room.

"We've caught someone rather important," Lucius answered, stepping quickly toward his sister-in-law. Draco pushed back into the shadows, turning his head away from everyone in the room.

Bellatrix didn't so much as acknowledge either of them. Hermione could see the crow-like woman out of the corner of her eye, circling the group slowly and humming under her breath. Hermione could just see a twisted wand tucked into the laces of Bellatrix's dress.

This was her opportunity. She inhaled hard before expelling all the air from her lungs, making herself smaller. She watched for a second, making sure everyone's eyes were on Bellatrix, before wriggling the ropes across her chest up an inch. It wasn't much, but just enough to be able to bend her arm. Hopefully, that would be all she would need.

When Bellatrix reached Hermione, she stopped, leaning in close—close enough that Hermione could hear the creaking of her corset and smell the decay on her breath. A smile twisted on Bellatrix's face.

"This is the Mudblood girl," she said, and reached up to grip Hermione's jaw, turning her face side to side. "This is Granger."

Hermione said nothing, only stared back defiantly. She would not let this madwoman see the terror sparking in her gut as she reached blindly for the wand she knew was there.

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Lucius in response to Bellatrix, his familiar drawl breaking into uncontained joy, "and beside her, we think Potter."

Bellatrix's lips cracked into a smile, but before she turned to look at Harry she dug her fingernails into Hermoine's cheeks. The gesture almost certainly left indents on her face, but Hermione refused to grimace until Bellatrix shoved her face away.

The breath that she had been holding seeped from her lungs as she hurriedly shifted her arm to hide the wand from sight. She'd done it, and near as she could tell, no one had noticed. Harry was the perfect distraction. Closing her eyes to shut out the Malfoys and the icy purple room, Hermione reminded herself that she couldn't use the wand until the perfect moment. There were too many armed Death Eaters, and there was no way she could fight them all at once. But if she could loosen the bonds tying them together, she would be able to turn on the spot, to Apparate out and come back with help.

She'd just started working wordless charms to slowly undo the knots in the rope when Bellatrix screamed.

"What is that?" she shrieked at a Snatcher that Hermione couldn't see.

"Sword," grunted the response.

The Sword of Gryffindor. Hermione cursed silently, and started trying to work the spells faster. She _had_ to get them out, but the wand wasn't responding to her very well.

"Where did you get it?" Bellatrix demanded of the Snatcher.

"Reckon I found it, missus. They's had it when we got 'em in the woods."

Rage pooling in her eyes, Bellatrix reached for her wand. Hermione felt her heart stop—she wasn't finished.

Bellatrix's skeletal fingers closed on the empty space where her wand had been. Quickly, she patted the back of her corset, searching. When she didn't find it, she spun around, her eyes first scanning the ground behind her before she looked up, her gaze darting madly between Hermione and Harry.

She didn't speak to them, but her ochre eyes finally rested on Hermione.

"Cissy," she whispered, "I'll need to borrow your wand."

* * *

 **a/n:** Hello lovelies! I did a tiny little update to this chapter, it almost wasn't worth doing. But it mattered to me! Anyway, this a/n originally said that the title changed from _Tomorrow, When the War Began_ to _What Time Taught Us_. _Tomorrow, When the War Began_ is a gorgeous name for a so-so film, and _"_ What Time Taught Us" is a so-so title for a gorgeous song by the band The Dear Hunter. Check them both out, but first, leave me a review! This story is about to ramp up again.

xoxo scrimmie


	3. Scene Three: Cowardice and Idiocy

**Scene Three: Cowardice and Idiocy**

* * *

Draco's fingernails cut tiny half-moons into his palms as he listened to the scuffling and snapping of his aunt freeing Granger. Even the fire seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what Bellatrix would do. Draco stared pointedly at the flames, because even though he couldn't avoid the sound, he intended to do everything in his power not to watch someone else he knew choke on their own blood in his sitting room.

"Aren't you going to help?" his father hissed in his ear, claw-like fingers gripping Draco's shoulder and turning him to face the room. The untied prisoners stood at Scabior's wand-point, except for Granger. His aunt, having retrieved her wand from the younger witch's grip, laughed like she had glass in her throat.

"You thought you would get away with my wand, did you, ugly mudblood? I assume you stole my sword as well?" Bellatrix held the younger witch up by her hair, pulling like she might shake the words out of her. Granger only glared.

"How did you get that sword you nasty little bitch?" Bellatrix pointed her wand at Granger's throat, her voice quickly rising to a screech. "Where did you steal it from?" Granger's gaze, impossible though it seemed, hardened. She spoke not a word.

Draco swallowed hard, fighting the urge to cock his lip in a smile at such defiance. But when his father's fingers trembled in excitement on his shoulder, all pleasure he might have felt faded away. Bellatrix hated nothing more than a prisoner that didn't beg and cry.

"Draco," his aunt screamed, feeling his gaze. She turned to glare at him, an insane glint in her eyes and Granger's hair still wrapped in her fist. "Since you don't have the stomach for real work, would you take the other blood-traitor scum downstairs?"

Relief swept through his bloodstream. He knew he should be ashamed of it, of his aunt's cutting words, but shame was the last thing on his mind. This was a reprieve he would pay for later, but right now he was only too happy not to have to watch. He slid his wand smoothly out of the strap holding it under his shirtsleeve.

 _"Incarcerous,"_ he whispered, re-tying Potter and the Weasley back to their Gryffindor friend and the goblin. Keeping his wand pointed at them, he skirted around his aunt and the mudblood.

"Out," he snapped, prodding the group of prisoners toward the door of the drawing room.

"No," the rough voice of the Weasley answered, just as Bellatrix hollered a cruciatus curse behind them. Draco's eye twitched as he listened to the mudblood witch let out a strangled gasp and fall, seizing, to the floor.

"LET HER GO!" screamed the weasel, fighting furiously against his bonds.

Draco clenched his fist around his wand, forcing himself not to look back, not to take in Granger's inevitably twisted shape and an almost pretty face that was probably contorted from the suffering of a pain so terrible she could not make a sound. He silently incanted a _locomotor prisoners_ before biting out an answer to the Weasley.

"Let her go, eh? That's an excellent dream." It's also a naïve one, he added to himself. No one was left alone once Bellatrix got her claws in them. Draco strode from the room with the tied up group in tow, ignoring the Weasel's guttural screams and the goblin's shushings.

As soon as they were across the threshold and out of the toxic air of the drawing room, Draco's shoulders relaxed a bit. He walked silently along the paneled hallway, not bothering to light the lamps.

After a moment, the Gryffindor whose name Draco couldn't remember spoke to him. "You're a real cock, you know that Malfoy? She's your classmate."

Draco snorted, but his stomach flipped at the truth of the words. "She isn't my friend. And she was stupid to challenge my aunt."

"That's no reason to let her die!" the Weasley shouted. "Besides, Hermione is smarter than all of us."

A metallic taste hardened in Draco's mouth at the thought of what would become of Granger, but she had decided her fate. Angrily, he whirled and stabbed his wand in Ron Weasley's face.

"Granger was stupid. She should have known better than to fight back. Not here, not in the Dark Lord's snakepit. She'll die for that choice."

The ugly swelling that was Harry Potter spoke for the first time. "At least she won't die a coward like you."

Anger roiled in Draco's stomach. He wasn't dense enough to pretend he wasn't a coward, but he was sick of people pointing it out. Especially someone like Potter, who wouldn't kill a person either, and who was notorious for getting idiocy and bravery confused.

Not gracing anyone with a response, Draco turned around and took a sharp left to descend down the stone steps that led to the cellar—which had begun to double as a dungeon. Just as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the bloody sound of Bellatrix screaming dripped through the floorboards of the mansion. A sharp shiver raced down Draco's spine.

He shoved the prisoners through the door in front of him, and followed them inside. He cast the ward to lock the door and collapsed on the floor, willing himself not to hear the sounds coming from above.

\\\\\

Pain. Excruciating pain. It popped like gunpowder in Hermione's eyeballs, bubbled under her flesh like oil. Her bones creaked, threatened to snap under the pressure building in her marrow. At some point, she had fallen to the floor. Her friends were gone, led away by a slate-faced Draco. She was going to die here, alone in a roomful of Death Eaters.

A distant echo of Ron screaming her name ricocheted off the walls, but the young witch could barely recognize it through the grating of Bellatrix screaming in her ears.

"I will rip off a limb for every time you don't answer me!" Each syllable was punctuated by a fresh wave of pain for Hermione. Tears spilled down her face, mixing with snot and filling her mouth. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to speak.

"What else did you take from my vault at Gringotts? WHAT ELSE?" Bellatrix's fingers lifted Hermione's chest from the floor. Hermione only glared.

"You don't want to speak?" Bellatrix hissed, "Don't worry, by the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to!"

Hermione choked, spitting out the fluid in her mouth, before rasping, "We didn't steal it."

"You filthy blooded little bitch!" Bellatrix screamed, shoving Hermione away. Her head struck hard against the floor and the room began to swim and pulsate dizzyingly. But just as the sweet darkness of unconsciousness began to sweep over Hermoine, an acid burning seared across her forearm. It took only seconds for her entire arm to go numb, but she could vaguely feel the flesh of her hand seize against Bellatrix's grip on her wrist. The burning quickly licked along her whole nervous system, exploding into the sensation that she was being ripped apart ligament by ligament. The pain clawed its way down her legs and up her neck, wrapped her heart in a vice grip, and finally, finally, a scream wrestled its way out of her throat.

* * *

 **a/n:** I suppose this is kind of short, isn't it? Better than nothing after two years? I plan to get this story ramped back up now that I've finished my B.A. and assorted certificates. There's suddenly so much fucking free time that I can write for fun! I hope some of you are still along for the ride. I promise you a longer, more thrilling chapter next week.

In the meantime, I'm going to cuddle with my cat and listen to the rain.

xoxo scrimmie


End file.
